


The Realization.

by Sasscroft99



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-04-02 04:02:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4045162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sasscroft99/pseuds/Sasscroft99
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft has never truly cared for anyone deeply, other than his brother. He had learnt early on that love was a grand disadvantage, and dangerous in his profession. However, love never did play by rules.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Realization.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the character of Mycroft, he is rightfully the belonging of BBC, Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat and of Arthur Conan Doyle. All I own is the plot and the OC who is mentioned. I make no profit from this, I only borrow Myc here and play around with him for a while, for pure enjoyment. 
> 
> Oneshot, looking at Mycroft's feelings if he ever did fall in love. Enjoy!

It was the quiet creek of the slowly reclining door, the click that signalled it shut. The faint golden glow of the lamp next to her couch filling part of the room; an arc drawn on carpeted floor and flowing out of the closing door like a farewell. Or maybe like a promise.

It is strange that those should be the sharp images Mycroft should remember with such intense clarity, however, in the end, it was not the scene nor the lack of it that mattered, but the duration of time. The seconds that slowed down for his mind to process those thoughts.

Or did not slow down, since that was perhaps the point - since his mind worked like flashes of lightening, realization that crept on others slowly, uncertainly, with a tap on the shoulder for permission - did not feel the necessity to do that with him. So keep that in mind. Imagine the closing of a door leading to a cool night with a completely black sky and many street lamps and several rustles of tree leaves and bushes urged by the helping hand of the night’s breeze. Imagine a man’s hand on the door knob, pulling it shut, his coat clad body still turned towards the house, his eyes still staring indoors – the little he could still see. And the man’s brain working through scenes milliseconds at a time as the door made its forward motion, coming to a final conclusion at the same time the door clicked shut, and the man turned around, away from the house and towards the night, his head now heavy with this single realization: there was no going back.  
*

She had looked at him in a way he could not have described with the 1,025,109 words available in the English language. But if Mycroft could have let himself indulge in anything for more than a few seconds, he was certain it would be that look. The look she had given him before the sluggish hands of sleep had finally claimed her and she had snuggled closer to him, face buried in his shoulder. The shoulder that felt more alive than the rest of his body at that moment, felt as if every nerve was transferring itself to the cells that formed that part of his anatomy for the length of time that she was sitting like that, her delicate pale face perfectly positioned on his shoulder, street lamps making fascinating shapes on her other cheekbone, defining her face, letting her eyelashes decorate a shadow below them.

She looked beautiful, magnificent. And he? He could not take his eyes off of her, even as his breath hitched in his throat and his mind slowed down and fogged up for a moment - something that would usually snap him out of his thoughts and force himself to regain utmost control once more.  
*

The soft touch had tickled his skin, and then made it feel like fire, as it first placed itself on his hand. The sweet touch of her hand, first uncertain and then definitely present, altogether there and reassuring - telling him, just as much as her voice did at the same time, that he need not hide from her. Of course, he would be damned if he believed that, if he truly let all of his guard down. A little smile, a laugh, a less-than-a- lie retort; that he allowed himself. He admitted that he let himself get to here, to this preposterous date, therefore, he might as well give her something for her time, and how she longed to see him without ‘his mask’ as she had called it. But more than that, no. He could not do that.

However, just for a second, with that feeling of her hand over his, and the honesty and genuine hope in her eyes – just for a second, he contemplated the notion, before sending it back to its place at the back of his mind where it shall never reappear. 

Only later, when those memories - when the whole night but especially those two memories – played through his mind did he notice, did the fact hit him like a slap in the face, a panicked slap that only he could make look like nothing had even been contemplated on the surface. But it was there, no matter what anyone else would have seen had they been standing next to him and looking for a reaction.

The realization. Occurring while Mycroft shut the door he had opened minutes ago to carry her sleeping form through. Occurring while his eyes traced the glimmers of light that escaped through a yet to be closed door. There was no going back. He had let his guard down without his notice, without the usual long and controlled thought process that happened prior. No, it had simply slipped, like the mask she had said it was. She had reached up with her soft, soft hands and lightly wiped it off, smiling winningly all the same, shimmering irises looking right at him, so he would not suspect a thing. Not until he was pulling the front door of her house shut, the events of the night flicking behind half observing eyes.


End file.
